It was the calm after the storm. Baker Street was quiet and dark, the shadows playing softly along the floor as the breeze blew the drapes in a gentle wave.
Hearing a soft cry, Sherlock sat up and stole silently from the bed, leaving the exhausted Molly to her slumber, drawn to the hand-carved cot in the corner.
He leaned over the side and traced his finger along the soft skin of his son's cheek and his heart clenched, in both wonder and fear.
At his father's touch, the baby scrunched his nose and twisted his body, another cry on his lips. Sherlock immediately scooped him up and cradled him high on his chest.
After bending to kiss Molly's forehead, he left the room, his heart in his hands.
Out in the lounge, he soothingly rubbed the baby's back and walked the floor until he settled back down, his lips parted in sleep.
Sherlock pressed his lips to the top of his son's head and closed his eyes. 'I love you. And I will always be there for you.'
From her place by the book-covered desk, the phantom of Mary Watson smiled.
In saving my life she conferred a value on it. It is a currency I do not know how to spend.
'You're doing just fine, Sherlock Holmes,' she whispered.